From the soundless, listless, whiteless pitch,
the scentless iris of the enmasked reposts as
atmospheric rupture tears away my flesh.
Now arrest from peace to pink barrage
to the rainbow that conceives a burning baby
falling from the ashen sky.
I taste the shock as thunder fills my throat,
and in that time I scrape a life away from broken sounds
and rolling holes of monotonous teeth.
They see me here, and know full well my aura flows outward.
“It tastes of purple.” I hear them say, in English far surpassing my own.
My softened will can not give in, but crawl,
crawl on bouts of blinded faith and trust,
where not but sanctum can make me rot.
I pass up the home, the green, the orange,
and beneath a fungal pillar ripe with fly and beetle,
I rest my nose and let it absorb the flavor of this world.
Cradle me under your wing so I can see some hope.
My breath is failing to touch my heart
and the crimson streaks of life are draining from broken dams.
Softly, I will spur this passage home, but today I can say
“I will forever consume the air of Orion’s Belt.”
-by Arthur Pembrook